SABATO MUSICALE

Enjoy.

Vasco Rossi - Canzone

FOODIE FRIDAY - PASTA DI MAGGIO

Sometimes I like to create a dish out of what I have in and that's what I did this evening. Linguine are among my favourite pasta shapes; thicker than spaghetti, they "hold" a thick sauce or vegetables well and are less messy to eat if, like Chaucer's Prioress, you are intent "that no drope ne fille upon hire breast". [She is on my mind because earlier I explained the Prologue portrait to a student.] I have called the dish pasta di maggio or "May pasta":

For 4 people, cook about 400 gr linguine according to the instructions on the pack. Meanwhile, heat 2 tablesp olive oil in a wide frying pan. Add a pack of pancetta cubes [smoked pancetta will give a better flavour] and swirl around in the pan for a few minutes. Chuck in about a kilo of cherry tomatoes [wonderful Rosa brings me home-grown ones] with some chopped chives and basil leaves. Keep stirring until the tomatoes look as if they are about to burst [5 minutes or so]. Take the frying pan off the heat, drain the pasta when al dente and return it to its pan. Add the contents of a drained jar of mixed roasted or grilled peppers [cut into strips] to the tomatoes, stir it all and add to the pasta. [You could, of course, make your life difficult by grilling and peeling your own peppers beforehand but that's up to you.] Season with coarse seasalt - an Italian once told me that pasta requires coarse seasalt and he was right - and ground red pepper in the Sicilian way. Mix it all well together quickly, bung it in a serving dish, scatter over some more basil leaves and serve.

BACK TO THE "ALTRO POSTO"

I hadn't been to my favourite bar, the Altro Posto, since becoming ill in October. Why? I'm not quite sure myself: maybe because I didn't want to think about the last time I was there, a couple of days before going into hospital. I didn't know what was wrong with me, was so weak that I could hardly walk and I was feeling very, very scared. Or maybe I didn't want to bump into a "friend" I used to see there, who, on that same day, had commented, "What if you've got an inoperable tumour?" When that thought has already entered your mind, along with many others, you do not wish to be reminded of it just when you're trying to convince yourself that there will be a positive outcome!

But this morning, with Rosa, I decided to put all that behind me and off we went to partake of their fresh fruit and ice cream "cups". I'd forgotten just how good these are and I got a lovely welcome from the bar staff. Of course, ice cream calories, like chip calories, definitely do not count when you are out!

PRIMARY COLOURS

Strawberries being sold by the crate, large, glossy red peppers behind them, round aubergines and smooth, dark Sicilian cucumbers on the right.

TEMPO D'ESTATE

Summer has at last come to Modica: the sky is a bright, cloudless blue, the orange blossom and jasmine are out, their heady scent accompanying you wherever you walk and balconies everywhere are a riot of colour:

The bars again have their own ice creams, made from only the finest natural ingredients [by law] and the granite have appeared:



Women have not yet put away their trouser suits and tights, but that will happen by the end of the month and soon school will finish and people will begin their annual migration to the country or the sea, where they will stay until September or even November.



Seasons change but the Post Office never does, it seems: yesterday Rosa and I gave up after three attempts to pay her electricity bill, for no conto correnti counters were open at all for a good part of the morning. Today I thought I'd cracked it, popping along there at 1.45 and finding only two other customers in the entire place. How wrong I can still be! I'd appeared just as the shift change was happening and this took so long that I sighed and sat down, as usual. No customers were attended to during this process and when a postal counter clerk had taken up position, counted his float, logged on to his amazingly slow computer, attended to several queries from colleagues and finally looked ready to deal with his adoring public, you may imagine my facial expression when I realised that the woman with the ticket before mine was posting several large, fresh cakes [I knew they were cakes as I recognised the name of the shop on the bags] and intended to pack them right there, at the counter! "I didn't know what size box to get", she explained to the clerk, who then disappeared for several minutes, returned with three differently-sized boxes and proceeded to try to jam all the cakes into the first one. "Oh, they might get squashed!" cried the customer and that would never do, would it? What would all the relatives say? So out came the cakes and then they were fitted into the second box. It looked fine to me but not to the seven or so new customers who had by now arrived and gathered round to see the fun. It was not a bad box, you must understand; it just wasn't perfetto. At last the third box was filled with the precious delights and declared to be perfetto. It then took another ten minutes or so for the recorded delivery forms to be filled in, arranged prettily on the box [for their positioning has to be perfetto too - this is, after all, the country of Michelangelo] and for the copies to be noisily rubber-stamped. To be honest, I thought it was quite sweet that the clerk had the pazienza to be so helpful in this instance - I can think of no other country where that would happen. I rather think I ruined his day afterwards, for he is used to asking, "Per la Gran Bretagna?" ["For Britain?"] when I take a package in and is proud of his memory. He looked crestfallen this afternoon when I told him it was for Italy this time! Do you think I should send some cakes off somewhere in atonement?

Summertime - Tempo d'estate [1955]

QUIZ: SICILIAN LITERATURE

SICILIAN LITERATURE » Quizes

I'd like to thank my local bookshop, Equilibri, for their kind help in compiling this quiz.

SABATO MUSICALE

Patrizio Buanne - Na sera 'e maggio

WHAT IN SICILY? - 21

Answer in the comments tomorrow.

FOODIE FRIDAY

I needed a fast supper tonight so what better than a chunk of freshly made schiacciata [focaccia] bread from a local baker and these little squares of minced meat topped with salame and cheese from the butcher along the street? Added a little of the chicken and artichoke salad I made yesterday, put a little bowl of olives on the side and Roberto's your uncle!

SIMONE, THE LITERARY CRITIC

Hi, folks. It's Simi here!

Poetry, poetry, poetry - that's all my mummy can talk about lately, what with her translating Uncle Antonio's book and then going off to Tuscany to that poetry kennel without me! If you ask me, it would have been much more interesting to listen to different dogs barking onstage, but humans do very strange things sometimes.

I didn't mind, really, as I went to see my friend Mr Enzo at the doggy hotel / beauty parlour. When we came back, he told mummy I had not only been bravissima but dolcissima as well. [I'm not stupid - I knew I'd get more treats when I came home if I put on that "sweet baby" look!]

Did you know my mummy wrote me a little song and she sings it for me when we are out walking? It goes like this:

Little Simi Eggleton
walks along the road with mum.
And her mummy loves her so
and she tells her as we go.

"Hello, Mister Man," we say,
"Do you feel all right today?"
"Hello, Simi," says the man,
"Be a good girl if you can."

In her coat she looks so posh,
everybody says, "Oh, gosh",
"Who's that pretty, little one?"
"Bella Simi Eggleton."

Now apart from the bit about being a "good girl", that's what I call a poem! And there's no need to go jaunting off to Tuscany to hear it, either!

Buona notte, fans. See you all soon!

Love,

Simi x

"ESISTENZIALE ITINERARIO" by ANTONIO LONARDO

Here is Antonio Lonardo's prize-winning poem, published here with his kind permission, along with my own translation:

ESISTENZIALE ITINERARIO

Celestino, possedevi, in nuce,
le metafisiche risposte
alle grandi questioni della vita
ed i tuoi lunghi discorsi
erano chiari input di soluzione.

La tua overdose di esperienze
di apocalittici lavori,
nelle sotterranee gallerie
del progresso, con rischio di vita
ti conduceva a difficili tramonti.

Cercavi il calendario della luce
nello tsunami di laboriose
avventure tra spaccate rocce
di binari, spesso ricoperte
dal sudore freddo della lontananza.

Nella corsa verso ovest,
nel lungo salto dei meridiani,
costruivi il tuo futuro
nella rincorsa del ricco tempo
utopico sogno di una vita.

Con il sincero sorriso
dei tuoi occhi azzurri
smontavi le difficili distanze
di umanità fuori dal vicolo,
con crescenti esperienze di dialogo.

La pesante pagina del passato,
chiusa da circolare storia,
si apriva alla speranza
di allungare i binari della ricchezza
nel rivolgimento di iniziali principi.

Il terminal di deluse lusinghe,
vissute oltre i confini del vero,
per una coraggiosa umanità,
è sciolto da superati vincoli
di storia, fatta solo di parole.

EXISTENTIAL ITINERARY

Celestino, you had, in a nutshell,
metaphysical answers
for the great questions of life
and your long discussions
were clear input of solutions.

Your overdose of experience
of apocalyptic work,
in the underground tunnels
of progress, with lives at risk
brought you to difficult sunsets.

You sought the calendar of light
in the tsunami of laborious
adventures among the cleft rocks
of station platforms, oft - enveloped
in the cold sweat of absence.

In the race to the west,
the long leap towards the sun,
you built your future
in pursuit of gilded time
a Utopian dream of a life.

With the sincere smile
in your blue eyes
you dismantled the difficult distances
between humanity outside the little street,
with broadening experiences of dialogue.

The heavy page of the past,
closed by circular history,
opens in the hope
of lengthening the platforms of affluence
by the gyration of original concepts.

The terminal of lost illusions,
lived through beyond the confines of truth,
for a brave humanity,
is melted by the crossing bonds
of history, made only by words.

- From Il Profumo del Pensiero - The Essence of Thought [Edizioni Nuovi Poeti, 2009].

"CHE SI FA PER UN MOMENTO DI GLORIA"

"Che si fa per un momento di gloria" ["What we do for a moment of glory"], observed my poet friend and travelling companion, Antonio Lonardo, as we stood on a windy platform at Firenze Campo di Marte Station [where the staff had helpfully closed the loos] awaiting our 22.52 train home to Sicily on Sunday. At that moment, I couldn't have agreed more with him.

The epic journey had begun with the 14.30 Modica - Catania bus on Saturday and from Catania we took the overnight train direct to Florence via Messina. I had seen Messina and the Stretto before, but this was to be my first experience of crossing the Strait, as I had always flown to the mainland previously.

Our compartment of four couchettes was comfortable and clean enough but I do have to say that the train's sanitary facilities were inadequate. [What's new about that, in Italy? I cannot for the life of me work out why a nation obsessed with cleanliness fails to provide decent public toilets and washing facilities in places where they are obviously going to be needed.] After only about half an hour the compartment's three occupants were deep in philosophical conversation - no burying your head in your newspaper or book and being left to it here! - and when a fourth intrepid traveller joined us at Messina it took him just five minutes to pick up the thread. It all got a bit heated when his political views turned out to be contrary to the Italian Constitution and at that point your normally equally intrepid blogger decided to keep her mouth shut! At around midnight we all tucked ourselves into our couchettes and I had quite a good night's sleep [unsurprisingly, as I can sleep anywhere!]

We were woken by a lively school party at 6 am and arrived in Florence on time, at 09.10. I can't begin to tell you what that lovely city means to me: When I first saw it, many years ago, its beauty literally took my breath away. [The only place that has done so since is Agrigento.] That first time, quite alone, I walked its streets day after day until I had ticked every paragraph in my guidebook and felt as if I were meeting in person the writers I had studied for so long. And I began to truly understand the miracle of the Renaissance. I stood transfixed in front of the Primavera in the Uffizi and cried when it was time to leave . I felt ambiguous, and still do, about the Nascita di Venere, for that figure has a lot to answer for, representing, as she does, the modern ideal of feminine beauty. Some years later, I revisited the city with a man I nearly married and later still, I returned in the hope of healing a broken heart - and I did, or rather, that wonderful city and the kindness of the Italian people healed me. And every now and then, whenever I could, I would go back to make sure that my bellissima città was still there...



And she was still there, in all her Renaissance magnificence, last Sunday morning. My dear facebook friend, Luciano, met us at the station and took us straight to Piazzale Michelangelo, whence I gazed once again at loveliness, at perfection, at what man can achieve. I don't suppose there will ever, again, be a "Renaissance man" because it is impossible, now, to be an expert in every known cultural field, so much has available knowledge increased. Thus I believe that what I looked upon that morning was the culmination [rather than the beginning] of a unique, marvellous "moment" in the history of our species.

One more loving glance, then round the corner for a delicious ice cream and on to the Ponte Vecchio, passing Elizabeth Barrett Browning's beloved Casa Guidi on the way. So crowded was this favourite haunt of mine that we didn't have time to go all the way across but at least I said "Buongiorno" to it and the ghost of Dante [although that was, of course, a different bridge]. Yes, I know it was all for the sake of allegory but the romantic in me likes to imagine his first sight of Beatrice Portinari as a thirteenth century "brief encounter" and that the bridge, without the tourists, looked much as it does today.



Suddenly it was nearly one o'clock and we were whisked away to the Tuscan hills where Luciano's wife had prepared a lovely "light lunch" of salmon mousse, lasagne and strawberries so sweet that they needed no accompaniment, to follow.

Time to put our glad rags on and it was off to Buggiano for the poetry prize ceremony, Luciano and his wife having arranged to take us there [much to my relief as I had been dreading negotiating the train - the steps are very high - in those heels!]

Many excellent poems were read out and Antonio was one of the prize-winners, for Esistenziale Itinerario [which will appear on this blog shortly]. Here Antonio is onstage while his prize-winning poem is read by an actress:



There was a very emotional moment when the overall winner, Floredana De Felicibus [for Tu Sei Memoria] dedicated her success to the people affected by the earthquake in her region of Abruzzo.

Later I was called up to the stage and interviewed about translation. Antonio came onstage with me afterwards and read his Il Poeta in Italian and then I read it in English. I was delighted when Romano Battaglia said I had preserved the musicality in the translation and delighted and surprised when organiser Sileno Lavorini presented me with an engraved plaque, which I shall always treasure:








Antonio started to cry from the emotion of it all and of course, that started me off, too!

Here is Antonio at the end of the ceremony with fellow-prize-winners Aikaterini Tzouvadaki, from Greece, and Alessandro Bertolino from Turin [and me]:



Our friends kindly took us back to Campo di Marte [which I shall always remember as a looless station] our train arrived and we quickly settled into our couchettes. By morning the train loos were disgusting and yet another philosophical colloquy commenced.

Here the ferry is leaving a rainy Calabria. [The first shot is from the window, then I risked life, limb and hairdo on the slippery deck to get the others!]




As you see, I bought the T-shirt:



I started to cry again as we arrived at Messina!





The train was delayed for an hour at Messina as tomatoes were loaded. Nevertheless, we made good time and caught the 13.30 bus from Catania, arriving back in Modica at 15.15. And then - would you believe it? - a 90-minute wait to get a local bus home! Pazienza!

The Sicilian countryside from the train:



I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank Antonio Lonardo for offering me the opportunity to translate his work and Sileno Lavorini for inviting me to the ceremony and honouring me with an award.

HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN, JIGGETY-JIG

I am truly stanca morta [worn out] tonight after my adventure so will just say it was all wonderful and post a few photos for now:

Here I am declaiming poetry onstage at Buggiano with Antonio Lonardo and Romano Battaglia:

It was wonderful to see Florence again after 13 years. The city looked lovelier than ever on a bright Sunday morning:

But it's also very good to be home and here is someone who thinks so, too! Doesn't she look pretty after her sojourn at Mr Enzo's doggy beauty parlour?

More tomorrow!

FIRENZE, HERE I COME!

Antonio the poet and I are off to Florence in about an hour. Antonio is a nominee for the Premio Internazionale di Poesia "Coluccio Salutati" and we are both invited to the ceremony.

"Our" book [I have translated the poems into English] is published today.

See you all on Monday.

Be good!

FOODIE FRIDAY - A LUNCH FOR 1st MAY

A lovely lunch out in the country with Gina and family today and the aroma of Sicilian sausages being cooked on the barbecue greeted me as I arrived.

To start there was pasta with tomatoes and chilli:



Then the sausages were ready



along with barbecued pancetta and veal



served with green salad and a dish of grilled aubergines dressed with oil and mint. [All good Sicilian cooks will tell you that where there are aubergines, there must be mint]:



There was a tray of magnificent dolci like these:



Then a basket of fresh fava beans was brought in and we ate them raw to clear the palate. [I'm not normally keen on them but I do like them like this]:



And the Sicilian countryside looked particularly pretty today:

RAGUSAN ROOFS....

... and other quirky views of the kind I like to take:

"Always look up in Sicily", Irma said years ago. Yesterday morning in Ragusa I did and was rewarded with a glimpse of this strange and rather pretty niche outside a private house:

I often find myself wanting to take a picture of some tiny little street here but usually the scene is spoiled by the presence of a whacking great car or several. For once I was lucky:

Finally and quirklessly here is part of the facade of Ragusa's beautiful Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista:

WORLD HUNGER

I'm going to a feast at three
Over there, a baby cries
His mother watches helplessly
as over there, her milk dries.

I throw round flour at Hallowe'en,
Over there, the baby dies
and eggs to jollify the scene
while over there, a man sighs.

They pay the farmers set-aside
over here, the wise young guys,
How can this be justified?
Over here, the same old lies.

I make some art of pasta shapes,
over here, with bright pink dyes
while Aid is tied with long, red tapes,
Over there, no lullabies.

Have we even lost our shame?
Over here, averted eyes
Progress - how absurd the claim
when over there, a child dies.

The world produces enough food to feed everyone. Yet scandalously, over fifteen million children die of hunger every year.

Things you can do now to help:

Become aware

Read the information here and here

Visit the BloggerAid - Changing the Face of Famine site and Friends of the WFP site

Support the BloggerAid Cookbook

Write to your elected representatives

Donate if you can


Image: Wikimedia Commons


Thank you.

ARE YOU A SICILIAN FOODIE? [2] » Create Quizzes

AN ITALO-ALBANIAN LUNCH

Lunch with Rosa and her family today:

First, there were new potatoes cooked with pancetta and herbs, served with salad, olives and excellent bread

then pasta al forno containing the sweetest, homemade tomato sauce



followed by beautifully cooked veal

and then Albanian cheese. I asked if it had a special name and Rosa replied that it didn't. But when I asked if it was feta, she said it was. Anyway, it was delicious.

For dessert there was fruit and I'd taken along the now famous tiramisù alle fragole.

Many thanks to Rosa and her family for a magnificent feast and a lovely, relaxing day.